The Cup of Comus Part 2

CHANT BEFORE BATTLE 64

NEARING CHRISTMAS 65

A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS 67

THE FESTIVAL OF THE AISNE 69

THE CRY OF EARTH 70

CHILD AND FATHER 71

THE RISING OF THE MOON 72

WHERE THE BATTLE Pa.s.sED 73

THE IRON AGE 74

THE BATTLE 75

ON RE-READING CERTAIN GERMAN POETS 76

ON OPENING AN OLD SCHOOL VOLUME OF HORACE 77

LAUS DEO 78

THE NEW YORK SKYSc.r.a.pER 79

ROBERT BROWNING 80

RILEY 81

DON QUIXOTE 82

THE WOMAN 83

THE SONG OF SONGS 84

OGLETHORPE 90

A POET'S EPITAPH 96

_THE CUP OF COMUS_

PROEM

The Nights of song and story, With breath of frost and rain, Whose locks are wild and h.o.a.ry, Whose fingers tap the pane With leaves, are come again.

The Nights of old October, That hug the hearth and tell, To child and grandsire sober, Tales of what long befell Of witch and warlock spell.

Nights, that, like gnome and faery, Go, lost in mist and moon.

And speak in legendary Thoughts or a mystic rune, Much like the owlet's croon.

Or whirling on like witches, Amid the brush and broom, Call from the Earth its riches, Of leaves and wild perfume, And strew them through the gloom.

Till death, in all his starkness, a.s.sumes a form of fear, And somewhere in the darkness Seems slowly drawing near In raiment torn and sere.

And with him comes November, Who drips outside the door, And wails what men remember Of things believed no more, Of superst.i.tious lore.

Old tales of elf and daemon, Of Kobold and of Troll, And of the goblin woman Who robs man of his soul To make her own soul whole.

And all such tales, that glamoured The child-heart once with fright, That aged lips have stammered For many a child's delight, Shall speak again to-night.

To-night, of moonlight minted, That is a cup divine, Whence Death, all opal-tinted,-- Wreathed red with leaf and vine,-- Shall drink a magic wine.

A wonder-cup of Comus, That with enchantment streams, In which the heart of Momus,-- That, moon-like, glooms and gleams, Is drowned with all its dreams.

_THE INTRUDER_

There is a smell of roses in the room Tea-roses, dead of bloom; An invalid, she sits there in the gloom, And contemplates her doom.

The pattern of the paper, and the grain.

Of carpet, with its stain, Have stamped themselves, like fever, on her brain, And grown a part of pain.

It has been long, so long, since that one died, Or sat there by her side; She felt so lonely, lost, she would have cried,-- But all her tears were dried.

A knock came on the door: she hardly heard; And then--a whispered word, And someone entered; at which, like a bird, Her caged heart cried and stirred.

And then--she heard a voice; she was not wrong: _His_ voice, alive and strong: She listened, while the silence filled with song-- Oh, she had waited long!

She dared not turn to see; she dared not look; But slowly closed her book, And waited for his kiss; could scarcely brook The weary time he took.

There was no one remembered her--no one!

But him, beneath the sun,-- _Who_ then had entered? entered but to shun Her whose long work was done.

She raised her eyes, and--no one!--Yet she felt A presence near, that smelt Like faded roses; and that seemed to melt Into her soul that knelt.

She could not see, but _knew_ that he was there, Smoothing her hands and hair; Filling with scents of roses all the air, Standing beside her chair.

And so they found her, sitting quietly, Her book upon her knee, Staring before her, as if she could see-- What was it--Death? or he?